


Utilitarianism

by xxx_cat_xxx



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Humor, Protective Bruce Wayne, Sick Tim Drake, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: Tim works himself into a migraine. But this time, it might just be worth it.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 25
Kudos: 266





	Utilitarianism

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [heyjupiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter/pseuds/heyjupiter) for beta reading!

Bruce opens the door to the office Tim has occupied ever since he finished high school a year early, not bothering to knock. "Hey, did you see my email―oh. _Oh_."

The dim light coming through the window has given the room that gloomy quality that’s particular to afternoons at the beginning of December, and it takes Bruce a moment to locate the Tim-shaped puddle on the floor. 

"B," the puddle croaks, sounding thoroughly miserable. "Keep the lights off."

Bruce stops his hand in the middle of reaching for the switch. “Headache?” he asks, softer now.

The puddle wriggles its head in what is likely supposed to be a nod.

“And what are you doing on the floor?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, as if this was an answer. And then: “'t was cold.”

That probably makes sense somewhere in the kid's migraine-meddled brain, but it doesn’t to Bruce. "Okay, up with you."

There's a stiff, barely-used leather couch under the window that's exactly as uncomfortable as it looks. But it’s the best option they have right now unless they leave the office, which, Bruce is sure, is about the last thing Tim wants to do in his current state. 

Ignoring his muffled protests, Bruce scoops up the kid and deposits him safely on the furniture. He's at least three shades paler than usual, accented with a greenish tinge on his cheeks, and the smudges under his eyes are so dark they could almost be mistaken for paint. Instantly reminded of clowns, Bruce suppresses a shudder.

“Please tell me you have some Imitrex around here.” Caretaking might usually be Alfred’s territory, but that doesn’t mean that Bruce is completely useless. 

Tim doesn’t even argue about needing meds, which is enough of a sign for worry in itself. “Second drawer under the table,” he replies without opening his eyes. 

Bruce forgoes the pills in favour of the injection―faster, and can’t be puked up. There are goosebumps on Tim’s skin when Bruce pulls down his expensive suit pants far enough to administer a dose just where his thigh meets his hip, and he notices that the kid seems to have lost weight, again. 

Bruce mentally skims through the past weeks at Wayne Enterprises, filled with end-of-the-year deadlines and last-minute budget meetings, catalogues the times he left the building to the light in Tim’s office still on, and wonders just how many all-nighters the boy spent in this very room. Reprimands himself, not for the first time this year, for not checking in on Tim more often. 

But then, it’s not like Bruce’s own schedule is any less busy, and his second youngest has always been too low-maintenance, much too good at leaving everyone under the impression that he’s taking care of himself even when he is really doing the opposite. 

(Bruce pointedly ignores the voice in his head that’s asking _well, where did he get that from?_ )

(He also ignores the fact that the voice sounds very much like Jason.)

He throws the syringe away and, on second thought, locks the door and takes the trashcan with him to deposit it next to the couch. He crouches down until he levels with Tim’s worn-out face. 

“You need more sleep, kid. You can’t keep doing that to your body,” he says quietly. 

Tim blinks an eye half-open, then let’s it fall shut again. “It’s worth it,” he objects in tired defiance. 

“Says who?”

“Says me. I calculated it. Quantified the pain and added up the lost hours of work, then weighed it up against the stuff I get done by minimising my sleep multiplied by the satisfaction I derive from that. Turns out not sleeping is the most efficient option as long as it doesn’t lead to me having more than one migraine a month.” 

Tim’s eyes are still closed, so he can’t see how the expression of a silent, but intense _what the fuck_ on Bruce’s face slowly merges into a resigned _what was I even expecting_. 

“Tim―” he starts.

“’M gonna puke,” the boy interrupts, and luckily Bruce has the trashcan ready, because seconds later Tim is hanging over the side of the couch and vomiting what looks like pure coffee into it.

“And that,” Bruce says, holding the bin steady with one hand and brushing Tim’s curls out of his face with the other, “that is exactly why utilitarian theory is wrong.”

“‘S no wrong or right in philosophy,” Tim rasps upon resurfacing. “But I always knew you’re a Kantian.”

He lets out a choking cough and dives for the trashcan again while Bruce, unsure whether he agrees with Tim’s interpretation of Kant, has the uneasy suspicion of just having been insulted. “Let’s discuss that tomorrow when your brain is back online.”

Tim makes a noise like he’s about to give a reply, but is overcome by another heave that forces the rest of his lunch (breakfast?) up his throat.

“Easy,” Bruce soothes, his tone sober now. He moves his hand down to let it rest on Tim’s spasming back muscles. 

When the boy is reduced to shaky breaths and small, involuntary whimpers, Bruce takes the trash can away to rinse it in the tiny kitchenette in the corner of the office. Then he returns to the couch and sits down next to Tim. He hesitates a moment before gently prodding him until he rearranges himself with his knees pulled up almost to his chin and his head resting on Bruce’s thigh. 

The kid’s eyes are tightly screwed shut, lines of pain on his face that make him look both older and younger, like photos of past and future Tims layered one atop the other. 

But Bruce watches for it, and a few minutes later he can see the moment the painkiller starts to work and some of the tension leaves his body. His bony shoulders relax into Bruce’s lap and stomach, and he uncurls his hands that were clenched into fists. Bruce breathes a silent sigh of relief, because Imitrex is a 50-50 thing with Tim, and he wouldn’t want to think about the rest of the day if it didn’t at least take the edge of.

“You can go back to work, B,” Tim says when Bruce had almost been sure he’d fallen asleep. “‘M just gonna stay here until everyone leaves, and then go home.”

And, well, Bruce does have a 16:30 call happening in less than ten minutes, as the sleek digital clock on the wall tells him, a call he _did_ intend to take until just a moment ago. But something in Tim’s voice―maybe the loneliness the kid is too exhausted to mask bleeding through, or the shortest moment of hesitation before the word ‘home’ that makes it clear he considers his new downtown apartment anything but―makes him abruptly change his mind. 

“I’m free for the rest of the day,” he lies. “You saved me from having to catch up with the time sheets. I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.” 

And Tim, who knows Bruce’s schedule agenda better than his own secretary, who’s typically mortified when other humans adjust their plans just for his sake, but who’s also high on painkillers and already three quarters asleep, doesn’t object. 

“See?” he mumbles instead, and Bruce will never know whether he was meant to hear what comes next. “Was worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first Batfam fic, so I’ll be happy about virtually any feedback. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://xxx-bat-xxx.tumblr.com/).


End file.
